


Follow the Lines

by May



Category: Homestuck
Genre: Dream Bubbles, F/M, Oral Sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-04-11
Updated: 2014-04-11
Packaged: 2018-01-19 00:53:18
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,315
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1449265
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/May/pseuds/May
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Bristling, he wraps his long fingers around your arm and digs his claws in. Your shape sometimes forgets to bleed so it doesn’t start running straight away. For a ghost made in the template of machination, the deep red line is so, so simple. He doesn’t make a show of horror over it and you don’t at all feel like working on never bleeding.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Follow the Lines

The kid sits slumped against the edge of the bubble, outlined against the void. You think that he could be pushed through the surface and into the darkness, but then he’d just paddle and crawl his way through eternity. And even though you don’t make your decisions based on what you _should_ do, anymore, you don’t think you feel like doing that, anyway.

Still, there’s an appeal in things you won’t get called on. And you could, down here in the bubbles, yank up his shirt and pull on his grub scars and make him spring forward. You don’t even think that Kurloz would care that much.

In a way that became sharply, sourly clear some time ago, most people only care about you in convenient ways. Why don’t you, then, ally yourself with people that don’t care about you, at all? The end is coming and you don’t feel like being one of the good guys. You’re not one of those rallied troops. Gamzee can be full of holes or not ( _not_ at the moment) but there’s not much he cares about, that you can see.

He has, when he wants to, curses and snarls, claws and teeth; the legacy, as far as you care about understanding, of royal hounds with titles. His anger bubbles young and fresh, pulsing next to yours which is ancient, crystalised and turned flat dark at the center. You don’t really mind red gold fury. If he could kill you, you would just shatter into the void and be all the better for it. One day, you’ll walk into a white beam. He can’t kill you, though.

You settle yourself between his legs. Bristling, he wraps his long fingers around your arm and digs his claws in. Your shape sometimes forgets to bleed so it doesn’t start running straight away. For a ghost made in the template of machination, the deep red line is so, so simple. He doesn’t make a show of horror over it and you don’t, at all, feel like working on never bleeding.

(You don’t even know if you can picture him ever giving you the kind of faces that Rufioh gave you, not even underneath the facepaint)

You untie your dress to the waist and his eyes are dull like clouded water. They wouldn’t always have been that way, but you doubt you could ever find that version of him. You press yourself against him and he lets you, still with that bristle. You put your hands on his shoulders and then tug yourself up until you’re level with the lengths of his horns.

In the underside of the bubbles, Gamzee’s breathing is almost a third person along with the two of you. He sighs and you feel it brush against your naked chest. You wrap your fingers around one horn base and follow the line of it upwards. You remember carvings you saw of a troll in West Beforus churches with horns that spiralled and spiralled. You follow the single twist that Gamzee has now with your thumb – he doesn’t have anything like those spirals, yet. You’re pressed too close to him.

The bite doesn’t feel so hard and sharp, though your skin just takes a while to register anything. Alternian teeth should make no bones – they are what they are. You give one of his horns a solid yank, forcing nothing but a hiss from his chest.

He could tell you things, call you names. Tell you what you might be in his universe (though, not what you really were). Or maybe even just insult some facet of your appearance. It’s not like you don’t know what he does. Though you know that _you_ have good horns, at least.

 

Gamzee just makes a weird bellowing squeak, instead.

Importance is always in the action. Your hands are on his waist and he doesn’t push them away. The best and the most fervent messages are never spoken. He’s strong and he doesn’t distance you. He just squirms. And some trolls squirm like there’s a hundred milligrubs under their skin but he moves like he’s full of hinges and gears, the shift of them making his body twist.

Highbloods, once, were distant to you, and might well have been made of stone and smoke under their clothes. But you’re pushing your hands underneath the waistband of his pants, pulling them down. Far enough that you catch the sharp smell of fluid. It makes memories crack.

There’s not much when you grab his thigh. Intended to grow into something stately on one side and looming on the other, he’s still gangly. Where he’s growing, there’s friction between the cells, like the timeline used to be. Doomed timelines rotting off like dead shoots. Might just be the contrast between the living and the dead that brings this to mind, though.

And it’s your luck that time equals death so there’s no jostling timeline to tend to, now. Some ghosts can still rise sparks on their fingers,but you can’t. He’s wet and swollen like a cruel reminder, perched on top of a rolling slope.

Monsters and machines can only be unpredictable in the most basic and obvious ways. He could grab you by your horns, the rounds of them against his palms and push your face against his nook as it spreads. Then he won’t make a single excuse.

 A growl bubbles inside him and you think, for a moment, that you’re going to feel that good pull where your horns are rooted into your skull. He just sits back, shaking, hands limp on his knees and you decide to sink your blunt teeth into his thigh.

He does tighten his legs around your head, then, as his growl begins to round out. It’s strength but it’s not like he can crush your skull. Because its only vapour, after all. You catch one of the folds of his nook between your teeth and he hums, bristling.

When Gamzee curses inside the bubble, it ripples around its surface. The cracking darkness beneath you both doesn’t shame him into whispering under his breath. You lick from the base of where he splits up to his apex. He’s swollen around his pulse and gives a low purr.

You want to pull at him with your teeth until that one point inside you starts to dissipate. He tangles his claws in your hair and then lets them clatter along the twists of your horns. There’s no sour knot that stays, afterwards, so it’s simple. Then you can’t move your head, anyway, so you go slow when the flare of it finishes.

Your tongue isn’t enough for him and there’s a growl running alongside his purr. You could change it up and slide something into him, you guess. He’s probably thinking of some thick muscle of a bulge or maybe even some Alternian fluid collection thing. Your tongue is all he’s going to get, now, though.

You don’t feel like using your own bulge and, for everything, his hasn’t slipped out, yet. None of that sanctioned cruelty so you just feel sour. Or you would, if you could tell for sure that it was out of self-righteousness. You’re leaning towards doubt.

Your head is trapped in place, still, whether deliberately or not, and you don’t have enough room to easily slip your hand between your legs. You definitely aren’t going to retract your tongue, so what’s the point. Some cocktail of strength and lack of resistance, though you aren’t sure in what measures those are.

When Gamzee whines in his throat, it sounds so stupidly young and pathetic that you almost want to pull yourself free, anyway, and walk away to leave him to wriggle. He can find something to impale himself on, something to stick himself in. He’s no more divine than the substance of his flesh, whatever Kurloz might think.


End file.
